Quote

Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.

Thomas Hood

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Thomas Hood
Age: 45 †
Born: 1799
Born: May 23
Died: 1845
Died: May 3
Humorist
Poet
Writer
London
England
T. H.
Brown
Grown
Red
Poppies
Born
Blushing
Like
Blush
Corn
Midst

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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions Yet others of our most romantic schemes, Are something more than fictions.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh-- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburmum on his birthday,- The tree is living yet.
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The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.
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Whoe'er has gone thro' London street, Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own How he admires his halves And quarters--and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown.
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The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!
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The year's in wane There is nothing adorning The night has no eve, And the day has no morning Cold winter gives warning!
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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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